


A Bit of Skin

by hopefulwriter27



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-10
Updated: 2010-02-10
Packaged: 2017-10-07 03:59:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/61209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hopefulwriter27/pseuds/hopefulwriter27
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Dean get tattoos. Sex ensures</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Bit of Skin

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
**Entry tags:** | [fanfiction](http://hopefulwriter27.livejournal.com/tag/fanfiction), [nc-17](http://hopefulwriter27.livejournal.com/tag/nc-17), [sam/dean](http://hopefulwriter27.livejournal.com/tag/sam/dean), [spn](http://hopefulwriter27.livejournal.com/tag/spn)  
---|---  
  
_ **A Bit of Skin (Sam/Dean; NC-17)** _

**Title: **A Bit of Skin

**Author**: [](http://hopefulwriter27.livejournal.com/profile)[**hopefulwriter27**](http://hopefulwriter27.livejournal.com/)

**Rating**: NC-17

**Pairing**: Sam/Dean

**Summary**: Sam and Dean get tattoos. Sex ensures.

**Word Count**: 2,800

**Warnings**: tattoo!kink, slight blood play, pain play, rough sex, first time sex, incest

**Author’s Notes**: This was written for **[](http://screamaimdance.livejournal.com/profile)[**screamaimdance**](http://screamaimdance.livejournal.com/) **in the Supernatural Fanfic Exhange. I tried to get in everything you wanted. Hope you like it. 

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/hopefulwriter27/pic/00005q72/)

****

 

**A Bit of Skin**

****

           The needle pierces his skin and Dean’s eyes flutter as little shivers take his spine. Though pin-points of pain lick across his chest with the buzz of the needle, Dean feels like his mind is detached from his body. There’s a tingling haze that cushions his thoughts like bubble wrap, and he can’t form a single coherent notion. Pain and pleasure zig-zag up his nerves; they rule his world.

            It’s only when he begins to hear the sound of his labored breathing does Dean realize that Mike, the tattoo artist, has pulled away from his flesh. Dean’s eyes water from the intense sensations coursing through his body, but through the glaze he begins to take in his surroundings once again. The slightly reclined chair he’s using has a thin layer of leather padding, but it’s been sat in enough times that unyielding metal frame is making itself known along Dean’s back and bottom.

            The room is hot. Ohio in October isn’t the warmest of months, but the tattoo parlor is small. Inert air combined with body heat collects in the room like moisture in a rainforest. Black paint darkens the walls. Archaic symbols are laid over top with white spray-paint and finished with a glossy lacquer. There are no portrayals of Mike’s previous works or helpful designs pasted around to give customers ideas for their own tattoos. No. Mike Tanroy only caters to those who are aware of the truth.

            The thick musky odor of body sweat, both Dean’s own and from the other two men occupying the room clogs the air. There’s a hint of tobacco chew wafting near Dean’s head. Mike is a compulsive user, and he’s been chewing since the Winchesters first met him. Under all of those scents is the cloying decay of rotting leaves. Mike’s little supernatural tattoo parlor is smack dab in the middle of an Ohio forest, and leaves flock to the ground like ants to a dead bee.

            “Are you alright?” Sam’s voice is husky. Dean imagines his brother’s eyes have been watching the whole time. A shudder takes him.

            Blinking Dean tries to evaluate his brother’s question. Is he alright? Now that the sharp stab of the needle is gone, the spikes of pleasure-pain have mellowed into a steady throb of aching, sore flesh on his chest. He glances down at the angry rise of newly tattooed skin. The black ink swirls outward forming little flames around a perfect circle. A thin ring of peach flesh borders the underside of the flames and then there’s another black circle. A simple, yet perfectly aligned pentagram sits inside the inner circle. Flecks of dark red blood mar the design in several places. Dean watches as a bit of his life wells from a point near the tip of the bottommost flame, the place where Mike finished; it trickles down his chest in a thin red line. 

            Momentarily hypnotized by the dripping blood, Dean gently swipes his finger across his new body art. Pain arches across his chest. His breath whooshes outwards.

            “It hurts,” Sam whispers. The words are a declaration of envy, not worry.

            “Yeah.” Dean’s voice drags over sandpaper. Sweat prickles his body.

            Sam reaches out, like he wants to touch Dean, but Mike’s heavy bulk appears in the doorway. “Switch places,” he growls out. Dean’s learned that the growl isn’t an indication of anger. It’s just the way the man speaks.

Dean heaves his body upwards. His back aches. _Been sitting in that damn chair too long. _Sam is anxious, shifting side to side. The young man is in the chair seconds after it’s been vacated. “In a hurry?” Dean drawls.

            Sam flashes him a dark look, but says nothing. Mike’s got a fresh needle and more black ink. He motions for Sam to take off his shirt with a curt jut of his hand. Sam hastens to obey. He lets the cotton fabric settle in his lap like a thin blanket. Mike slaps an alcohol soaked cleaning pad across the muscle over Sammy’s heart. The damp skin sheens in the pale overhead light.

            The needle buzzes to life and Mike’s body is suddenly blocking Sam’s. Dean frowns and takes a step to the left so he can see. Sam’s eyes are closed, shadows hug his eyes. _We’ll stop for a few days and catch up on our rest, _Dean vows. 

            Sam’s breaths become heavier with each second. His large hands curl around the jagged metal edges of the armrests. Dean watches as his brother’s knuckles flush white then red. Meanwhile, Mike is chanting in Latin alongside the noise of the needle. The spell bends around the tobacco in the artist’s mouth, brushes against his tongue, and snakes itself into the ink. The ash color morphs darker, hard obsidian black.

            Mike pulls back, shifts closer to Sam’s body. He places one hand on the right side of Sam’s chest. _For balance, _Dean thinks. _And detail. _Dean walks to the left of the chair. Sam’s face has flushed pink. His eyes are still shut. Dean, being careful not to interrupt Mike, kneels next to the chair. The concrete floor is hard beneath his knees, and his own chest feels raw and achy. Dean lets the pain focus him. He sneaks his hand up to Sam’s. Their fingers twine together, sticky and hot.

            Sam’s eyes flutter open and lock onto Dean. Dean’s lips suddenly go dry, and he flicks out his tongue to wet them. “You okay Sammy?” he asks, echoing his brother’s earlier question.

            Sam shakes his head up and down. A bead of sweat slides from his temple down past his cheek only to catch on the corner of his mouth. His hands seem locked to the armrests, so Dean reaches upward to swipe away the salty droplet. At the same time, Sam’s tongue slips out to ensnare the bead. Pink and moist, it wraps around Dean’s thumb. A jolt seizes him.

            “Dean,” Sam rasps.

            Arousal pushes through his veins and clenches around his heart. Dean shifts upwards to give a little more space for his growing excitement.

            “Down boy.” For a moment Dean thinks that Mike is referring to his erection, but then he realizes he’s casting a shadow over Mike’s light.

            Dean steps back, mumbling, “Sorry.”  His fingers draw away from Sam’s. His palm feels strangely empty, and he stares at it, like just looking would provide all the answers. Finally, Dean raises his eyes from his hand to his brother. Hazel eyes bore into him. He stumbles backwards until he hits the stone wall. Still shirtless, the rough edges of stone tear faintly into his skin. Compared to the ache of his new ink and throbbing press of his arousal into the teeth of his jeans, it’s nothing. Unwilling to interrupt further, Dean claws his fingers and digs them into the stone wall. The angle is awkward, and after a few minutes his shoulders and forearms start to ache. His eyes never leave Sam’s.

            Again, it’s the lack of buzzing that Dean notices first. Blinking from a haze, Dean shifts his attention from Sam to Mike. The man is leaning back on his round, wheeled stool. His shirt isn’t quite large enough, and sliver of his furred belly flashes. Dean’s breathes are once again echoing Sam’s. Or maybe it’s the other way around. Mike reaches to the floor and lifts up a small copper tin and spits a wad of chew.

            The used tobacco pings, and Sam takes that as a sign to move. His long arm reaches the narrow tabletop next to the chair. A round, hand-held mirror rests atop. Sam holds it to reflect his tattoo. It’s an exact replica of Dean’s. “They’re solid,” Mike rumbles. Dean glances at the tattooist. The man is wiping blood from the tip of the needle. Dean looks back to Sam’s chest. Crimson speckles his tattoo, and a stream of blood follows the path etched by an uncountable number of muscles.

_           Like a trickling creek flowing in its etched riverbed, _Dean thinks.

           Mike rolls his stool over to the table and pulls open a drawer. He takes out two alcohol wipes, like the kind one gets at a barbeque place after dinner, and two thick squares of gauze. “Here.” He throws one of each towards each Winchester. They each catch the items with practiced ease. “I’m going to go put away my tools,” Mike states. “Clean yourselves up.” The gruff man stands and heads out the door. In the few seconds the door is opened Dean catches sight of both the Impala and Mike’s black Expedition. A stream of fresh air sneaks inside.

          By the time Dean’s eyes make their way back to Sam, his brother has already covered his new tattoo with the square of gaze. For a moment, the whiteness of the medical cloth seems stark against Sam’s skin, but slowly, dots of red soak through. The color eases Dean. “Here,” Sam says, mirroring Mike’s earlier statement. The tone is completely different.

         Sam slides the alcohol wipe from Dean’s grasp. The paper wrapper rips easily between Sam’s strong and nimble fingers. At the first touch of the wipe, Dean flinches. Embarrassment floods him, and he glances at his brother under lowered eyelashes to see if Sam caught the tiny movement.

         Sam noticed. His eyes are dark; a dark, knowing grin displays his dimples. Nothing about him screams his usual ‘good boy’ persona. Keeping Dean’s gaze, Sam stuffs the used alcohol wipe into his pocket. He unfolds the gauze pad and lays it gently over Dean’s tattoo. Dean imagines the square covering all the black swirls and speckles of dried blood. He doesn’t look down. Sam shifts closer, brushing his knee against Dean’s. He spreads his hand wide, covering the white square on Dean’s chest. He pushes hard.

        Pain blossoms under Sam’s palm and ripples across his body. “Sam," Dean gutters out. Lips smash into his. Rough, biting kisses pinch at his mouth. Taken by surprise, Dean stumbles backwards. He knocks into Mike’s stool, and it rolls across the floor, wheels shrill. Sam leaps forward, left hand still connected to Dean’s chest. He loops two fingers from his other hand through a belt loop on Dean’s jeans and tugs him close again.

        Sam forces his tongue between Dean’s lips when he gasps for air. As Dean struggles for dominance, moving his tongue against Sam’s, the youngest Winchester is pushing har. der and harder on Dean’s chest. Pain mixes with lust, clouding Dean’s mind and weakening his will.

        A noise breaks them apart then both Winchesters are turning towards the door. Mike steps in, and Dean thinks about how he and his brother look. _Like we’ve been humping each other’s legs. _The thought isn’t far from the truth. _Just a few more seconds and we would have been there. _Arousal musks the air and both brothers’ erections are painfully obvious from the bulges in their jeans.

         Mike stops a few steps in and rakes them over with his eyes. His nostrils twitch, and then he’s raising a bushy eyebrow at them. “You ain’t the first to get turned on by the needle,” the man snorts out. Neither Sam nor Dean move as he squirts down the chair, table and stool with an unlabeled bottle and wipes off the spray with a clean blue cloth.  When he’s finished Mike takes a look around the room, gives a curt nod to no one in particular, and says, “You boys can’t do it in here. Sex e’ll mess up the wards.” Sam nods like this makes perfect sense. Dean just blinks and continues to gulp in air through his mouth.

        Mike opens the door and waits. It takes Dean a second to realize he’s been ushered outside. He brushes past his brother, past Mike, and steps into a sunny afternoon.  He has to shut his eyes to give them time to adjust. There’s some talking behind him, Mike and Sam, and he hears the heavy wood door shut and the lock clink in place. When Dean opens his eyes again the sun isn’t so blinding and Mike is climbing into his SUV. Sam comes up behind him and rests his hand on Dean’s shoulder.  Together they watch the tattooist drive away.

        “You want to go back to…” is as far as Dean gets before Sam’s fingers go from slack to bruising on his shoulder. He’s being spun around and shoved against the wall of the stone hut. This time Sam goes for his throat. Harsh bites and hot suction are everywhere. Sam’s fingers drift along his jaw and two long digits slide into his mouth. Dean moans around them then sucks for all he’s worth.

        “Dean,” Sam growls then thrusts his clothed erection against Dean’s.

          Dean thrusts back and releases a loud moan. Sam yanks his fingers from Dean’s mouth and pulls hastily at the button on his brother’s fly. When Sam’s hand wraps around him through his briefs Dean has the sudden thought, _Sam and I are going to fuck. I’m about to have sex with my brother. _Dean tries to move back, but there’s nowhere to go except into the stone wall. “Sam, I don’t think…” Dean begins, but he’s cut off when Sam shoves the fingers of his other hand, the one not around Dean’s hardening erection, back into his mouth.

      “Suck,” the youngest Winchester commands.  Dean sucks.

       Sam’s tall enough that Dean only has to bend a little to keep his brother’s fingers in his mouth as the Sam uses his own mouth and nose to inch down Dean’s briefs and lick a strip along his shaft. “Jesus,” Dean howls.

       “No, not Jesus,” Sam responds with a deep chuckle. He swirls his pink tongue around the tip, and Dean watches, unable to do anything else. After what seems like an eternity and an instant, Sam tugs his fingers from Dean’s mouth and presses them behind his sack. The pressure sends a spark of electric pleasure throughout Dean’s nerves. His knees buckle.  “Don’t move.” It’s an order Dean struggles to follow.

       The sun has begun to set and a pink-orange glow spans the horizon. A breeze has picked up, cooling Dean’s roasting skin. Sam’s fingers rub against his hole and everything else blinks away. The ends of his fingers are moist-  _from my mouth, _Dean realize with another jolt of arousal. The tip of his index finger wiggles inside. “Keep your eyes open,” Sam snaps. Dean can’t remember when he shut them.

        After a few moments, Sam leans in further and swallows Dean whole. Scorching heat blasts along his spine. Sam’s finger presses inwards and brushes past something that makes him see white. “_Sam_,” he screams between clenched teeth. Sam swallows once more, tight heat all around Dean’s cock. Dean’s heart beats twice and then he’s coming in a sizzling blast of pleasure.

         Despite Sam’s earlier warning, Dean’s legs begin to shake and he starts drooping along the wall. Faster than Dean’s brain can process, Sam is up and spinning him around. His legs tangle in his dropped jeans and he stumbles, but Sam isn’t pushing him far, just turning him in a semi-circle. Then Sam’s chest is against his back and Dean’s is pressing into the hard wall.

        The uneven stone bites into his bare chest, bites through the thin gauze covering his tattoo, and pain pierces him like a lance. One of Sam’s legs nudges between his, widening his stance, and then Sam’s cock is sliding between the cheeks of his ass. The feeling of that hardness thrusting past his hole over and over again rips another moan from his lips.  “Sam…”

        Sam releases an echoing moan, and then latches his teetgrh to the nape of Dean’s neck and gives one final thrust. He spurts across Dean’s back; it’s hot and thick, and Dean shudders again. Sam slumps forward, as if he’s drained of energy. Sweat glues their skin together. Dean can easily hear Sam’s heavy breathing and can feel the beat of his heart against his back.

        Night has begun to descend, and the cool is quickly chilling their sweat. Leaves begin to tumble around them, but Dean can’t focus on any of that. He’s still coming down from the high of the needle and buzz of sex. He wants to turn and give Sam a kiss. He wants to yank his shirt from his brother’s pocket and tug it over his zinging flesh. Instead, he licks his lips and rides the wave of aching pain spiraling from his new body art and thinks, _When can I get the next one? _

 


End file.
